


Flare Animo

by PRD



Series: Flare Animo [1]
Category: Aphmau- Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Minecraft Diaries (Webseries)
Genre: (happy swalloween y'all), A Pretentious Meta-phor, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Porn, Blindness, Bruises, Burns, Canon Compliant, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, D/s elements, Deepthroating, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury Recovery, Laurance is a hot mess y'all, M/M, Major Character Injury, Massage, Mild Gore, Minecraft Diaries - Aphmau, Minor Injuries, NOT a 'Reader' fic tho, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Serious Injuries, Smut, Stitches, Swearing, blowjob, no gag reflex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-07 20:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20982008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PRD/pseuds/PRD
Summary: When you've been to Hell and back, you deserve a little pampering.Takes place within Season 1 Episodes 57 "The Baby Showers PT. 3", and 58 "Smile".





	Flare Animo

It’s a sunny spring afternoon. You can’t see it, but you can feel it. The way the sun is warm, but no longer uncomfortable; the smell of grass and sea coming through the open windows; the sounds of evening birds, not buzzing bugs. You can almost hear the villagers below, the sounds of life going on (without you.)

Behind you, the door creaks open, then snaps shut. Several footsteps later, the squares of warm sunlight on your body go cool, and you turn your head towards Garroth. It feels strangely light and loose without your waist-length dreadlocks. You recognized his heavier footsteps, and when he talks, there’s no mistaking his low voice—smooth but rough, like a good whiskey.

“Laurance.”

“Garroth,” you reply, mimicking his stiffness.

That gets a chuckle from him. It feels good, in a way not many things do for you these days. “I was hoping your ordeal would have tempered you, but it appears I was wrong.”

You can’t help but laugh at his attempt at a jab. He’s been a good friend to you as you’ve recovered, and after the initial awkwardness, he’s opened up to you. Not about his past, of course—you’ve had to pick the pieces of that story up from Cadenza and Aphmau. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, bro. What is it?”

He turns away, seeming to arrange something on the table to your left. “. . . I’m here to check your wounds. Well, the physical ones.”

“You?”

“I do know basic wound care, Laurance.” He touches your upper arm and gently teases off the bandages. It hurts, but it’s nothing compared to what you experienced in the Nether. Nothing in this realm ever will.

“How bad are they?”

He hesitates, pouring water over a deep cut on your bicep. “It’s. . . it’s disgusting, to be perfectly honest. Various oozing fluids. Not the worst injuries I have seen, by far, but certainly extensive.” He pats it dry. “This one should air out for a few hours, let it scab, but this one.” He unwinds the linens around the burn on your arm. “It’s dry, which is. . . well, not ideal for a burn this deep. It’s not too deep, or else it would not hurt, but. . . it will certainly scar,” he explains as he smears honey and herbs on, and rewraps it. He washes and bandages the stitches on your other arm, humming softly. You don’t recognize the tune, but it sounds like a waltz. He’s so weird.

“I’m going to touch your face now,” he says, breaking the silence. He dabs at the bruises on your cheek, and you hold very, very still as he checks your eyes. Still as blank as before.

When his thumb lingers on your split lip, you ask him what he’s doing. You make sure to drop your gaze to his thumb, then back up at where you guess his eyes are, for maximum effect.

“N-nothing,” he says, pulling his hand away. (There’s still honey on it, you can taste it.) “Nothing.” He clears his throat. “Could. . . could you remove your shirt, please?”

You smirk a bit, and pull it off, dropping it on the floor. He presses the back of your neck. “Lean forward, I need to see your back.” He traces the outline of the peeling burn on your back, occasionally picking off flakes of dead skin. It feels so good when he wipes the cool wet sponge across your heated skin. You sigh in relief.

All too soon, he moves to your front, checking the progress of the cuts on your torso, he examines the stitches across your stomach, the ones that run from the lowest rib to your hip—from a slice that followed a seam in your armor. His calluses feel like a cat’s tongue on the flushed skin.

Apparently satisfied, Garroth hands you your shirt. As you pull it on, he asks: “Ah, Laurance?”

“Yes?”

He hesitates for a moment. “I. . . need you to remove your pants.”

What. “Uh, why?”

“The wounds on your legs, and. . .” He coughs politely. “. . .the rest.”

“Oh. Sure, yeah.” You laugh a little at his embarrassment and stand up, a little shaky. He guides your hand to his shoulder and you lean on him, stretching. He smells like sweat, and herbs, and honey, and would be intoxicating if he wasn’t so very _Garroth_. Undoing your belt, you drop your pants.

He guides your hand to the back of the chair, and you hear him step away. Your heart jumps into your throat; is he leaving? (Nonono _don’t pleaseplease—_)

“Garroth!?”

His hand touches your shoulder. “I’m here; I was simply closing the blinds.”

A wave of shame crashes over you. It’s stupid, getting worked up about him stepping away for less than a second. You’re not a child, Laurance. “O-of course.”

He keeps his hand on you (it’s warm and kind and a little sticky), stepping around behind you, as if the two of you were dancing. His knuckles brush the small of your back, and he pulls off your underclothes. Yes, wow, you’re now butt naked and blind, and he’s still fully dressed. This is _fine_. You are _fine_. You pray he doesn’t do anything too much; now would be a bad time to explain your preferences to him.

“Are you alright?” Garroth asks, and you nod. He squats—or maybe kneels— his chainmail jingling like a dancer’s jewelry.

As he presses the sponge to the scrape on your butt—shit, that _stings_ —you can imagine he’s blushing under his helm. There’s definitely heat on your own face. He could so easily do whatever he wanted to you right now. A part of you hopes he does. Patting the stinging skin, he huffs in annoyance. He’s close enough for his breath to be warm on your bare ass.

“What?”

“It’s bleeding again. Some of the scabs have come off.” He presses a cloth to it. The warmth of his palm is almost painful on the raw skin. It’s even worse that he’s at eye level with your (very nice) butt, cupping it in his hand, and isn’t even trying to squeeze it. That’s what you would do, in his position. He has a decent butt, from what you remember. You shiver, a warmth that’s definitively not wound fever flooding your veins. Now is _really_ not the time for you to get an erection, even when instinct and manners agree that this has taken a few steps past that.

“There we go,” he says, pulling the cloth away. “Sorry.” His fingers say otherwise, staying longer than they should.

You clear your throat, trying to clear your mind. “Garroth?”

He stands up quickly, and steps away to your left, moving things on the table. From the number of items he’s fumbling, and the curses he’s hissing, you assume his face is beet red. You wonder if it’s spread to his ears yet. Then he stops, suddenly, and you hear grit scrape under his boots as he turns. Something makes a clunk on the wooden table.

“Sit.” He pushes lightly on your thigh, and you sit back down. His fingertips linger for a moment, four circles of warm pressure. Lifting your leg, they move down slowly, almost teasingly.

As Garroth’s fingers cross the edges of the burn, you wince. You hate this one; the tight painful skin, the numbness at the center. It feels like blindness, and it nearly crippled you.

He lays his hand on your knee. “I’m going to have to cut off some dead tissue.” You nod. Gross.

The worst part is that you just feel a series of dull tugs, no pain. If you didn’t know there was a knife cutting you, you would probably be able to ignore it completely. Unattached, you wonder if there’ll one day be nothing left but bare bone. You try to hope not.

Something tickles your other leg, and you swat it away. Your hand hits his head, and he yelps. “Ow! Whatever was that for?”

“Garroth? Sorry, thought you were a fly!” You can’t help being just a little amused as you touch his head. “Of course, as soon as I’m blind you take off your helmet.” Holy crap, his hair is soft and silky smooth.

Garroth presses your palm against his cheek. He feels handsome; strong jaw with a little stubble, a scar along his cheek, a slim nose. His lips are a little chapped, and he pokes his tongue out as you touch them. (Okay, c’mon, **don’t** think about fucking his mouth and feeling him swallow you desperately.) He pushes your hand away as you brush his ear, and you add “wears an earring” to the list of things you know about him.

He lifts your other leg, propping your foot on his hip so he can wipe your leg. The sheath of his knife is next to your heel, which you think is an inconvenient place to keep it, betw—Oh. Not a sheath. More like a large knife, your mind jokes, before you skip straight to— Holy— _is he getting off on this?_ No, he can’t be. He just. Can’t. Wouldn’t. Isn’t.

He is. Garroth definitely _is_ rocking his hips against your heel, which is flattering? And confusing, because he is also washing a scrape on your knee.

You swallow. “Garroth?”

“Yes?” Okay, so you’re still playing this game. The game you are very good at, ‘Dance Around The Complicated-Feelings-Shaped-Elephant In The Room.’ Hooray. _Fun_.

Continuing the elephant metaphor, you look directly at it. “What are you doing.”

“I’m cleaning your leg. Why, is something the matter?”

“Well, yeah, _bro_, you’re humping my foot and groping my thighs,” is what you want to say. You go with “no” instead. Because, well, he’s groping your thighs. You think the word might actually be massaging. Either way, it feels good, like a yawn and a stretch.

His hands leave for a moment, and you hear the pop of a cork. His hands return, covered in an oil that’s cool and minty. He spreads it across the tops of your thighs, rubbing it into the bruise on the left.

“All of this, for one bruise?” You smirk, knowing Garroth is going to get flustered all over again. Three, two—

“No,” he says, as cool as a cucumber.

Uh. “What, then?” He kneads the outsides of your thighs like dough. The liniment begins to warm up where he first put it on.

“For you.” There’s a moment of silence as he circles his fingertips behind your knees. The heat on your thighs is the liniment. The heat on your face isn’t.

He reapplies, and splays his hands on your inner thighs, squeezing gently. _Damn_.

“Breathe, Laurance. That’s an important part of relaxing,” he chuckles. You draw a shaky breath and lean back on the chair, trying to ground yourself. His palms rub back and forth, getting closer to your erection. He’s hard against your foot.

Garroth moves closer and doesn’t even try to hide his rocking movements. He’s rubbing tiny circles very, very unfairly close to your balls. His breath brushes against your dick, the fucking teasing bastard.

“Well, that’s rather rude, Laurance.” You nearly have a goddamn heart attack as he grabs your dick. He laughs at the very masculine squeak you make, the asshole.

“Garroth you horse’s ass, _stop laughing!_” This is it. This is how you die.

“What? It’s funny,” he chuckles. “Now, let’s see what we have here. . .”

His calloused fingers slide up your shaft, and he plays with your foreskin, sliding it up and down. Something hot and wet presses against the bottom of the head, and you gasp.

Then he takes you in his mouth, and you nearly moan.

Okay, yep. You were right, his mouth feels _damn_ good. A little too many teeth involved, but you’re not about to look this gift horse in the mouth and count. He bobs his head down, and you suddenly wonder, frantically, just how deep he plans on going and what the fuck you’re going to do if he vomits. You put a hand on his head just in case, keeping his rough stubble off your balls.

You sigh, resting your head on the back of the chair, enjoying the feeling of. . . well, everything. The liniment is keeping your thighs pleasantly warm against the quickly cooling air, and Garroth’s hand feels great on your butt, kneading you like dough. It’s easy to sink into his rhythm, like lying on a boat in gentle waters. You could compare it to the Nether, but flipped. Bliss anchoring you in your body, instead of agony tearing you from it. The last time you felt this relaxed, this warm, was. . . maybe back in Meteli, just spending time in the sun with Cadenza, talking the hours away. Something creeps down your cheek, and you wipe the tear away quickly.

While you were wallowing in self-pity, Garroth had begun to move faster, bobbing his head quickly, and it’s almost too much; especially when he decides to take you deeper.

His thumbs rub your hipbones as his nose meets your stomach, his breath warm and damp through your hair. The stubble on Garroth’s chin scratches against your balls. When you try to keep his head back, he digs his nails into the sides of your ass and his teeth into your dick. (Holy **shit**, when did he get so pushy?!) You let go, gasping, and he swallows around you. Oh fuck, that’s— that’s so good. His throat feels amazing, tight and hot around you.

Wrapping your fingers in his hair, you groan, bracing your right foot against the floor. Garroth takes your other foot off his hip and tucks it between his thighs, rocking quickly against your shin. He matches the movements of his mouth to his thrusts, and it’s so good, just fucking his throat without having to lift a finger. You’re surprised and flattered that he takes you so easily, effortlessly pulling a groan from your chest.

It’s no longer the gentle rock of a safe anchorage; he’s a pounding sea, a tide that tears away at your resolve.

The moan he makes before his thrusts come to a slow stop makes a hot shiver bloom up your chest. His hands loosen on your ass as his jaw slacks, and you think he might have been trying to pull off when you twist both hands in his hair and yank his head back against your hips. “M’not done.”

He pats your thigh in a way you take to mean “Fair enough.” Adjusting your grip so you have one hand on the back of his head, you pull him off until his teeth barely catch on the edge of the head of your dick; comparing for a moment the feeling of his freed tongue frantically trying to stroke you to the tight heat of his throat, then drag his face back down against your stomach.

“Swallow.”

He listens, but not without sinking his teeth into the base, making you groan as heat washes over you again. Irene, he’s so good.

You push him off, let his tongue and lips play with you for a moment, and pull him back against you, feeling him swallow. Push. Pull. Swallow.

It’s a simple rhythm, and devastatingly effective.

You come gripping Garroth’s hair like a lifeline, with his tongue probing between your foreskin and shaft.

He spits as you catch your breath, swearing softly. “Holy shit, Garroth. Holy fucking shit. Mother of Irene.”

He chuckles. “Was that your first time?”

“No, I just. . . how in Irene’s name does a man like you learn to do something like that?”

“Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, Laurance.” He’s happy, and you think, for now, you might be too.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my three wonderful betas, [vi](https://www.wattpad.com/user/nlvvvchan3), [Mak](https://www.instagram.com/_angelic_artist_), and Czech.


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